Je suis une autre

mais l'autre m'ignore...

Slow Drug

Blue now is the colour Love the drug I'm needing Got to keep this
feeling With the headlights burning We're looking up for something
Answers on the ceiling Watching out the windows Watch the way the
wind blows Soon it will be morning Still the question lingers I
twist it round my fingers Could you be my calling? See this winged
boy falling Falling out of something Hits the drug I'm needing
Arrows that he's turning Need to keep this feeling Slow drug in the
morning With the headlights burning Looking up for something
Something that we're needing Still the question lingers I twist it
round my fingers Could you be my calling? (PJ H.)

Archives

11/12/2011

passe plath

Not easy to state the change you made.If I'm alive now, then I was dead,Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,Staying put according to habit.You didn't just toe me an inch, no--Nor leave me to set my small bald eyeSkyward again, without hope, of course,Of apprehending blueness, or stars.That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snakeMasked among black rocks as a black rockIn the white hiatus of winter--Like my neighbors, taking no pleasureIn the million perfectly-chiseledCheeks alighting each moment to meltMy cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,Angels weeping over dull natures,But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.Each dead head had a visor of ice.And I slept on like a bent finger.The first thing I saw was sheer airAnd the locked drops rising in a dewLimpid as spirits. Many stones layDense and expressionless round about.I didn't know what to make of it.I shone, mica-scaled, and unfoldedTo pour myself out like a fluidAmong bird feet and the stems of plants.I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.My finger-length grew lucent as glass.I started to bud like a March twig:An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.From stone to cloud, so I ascended.Now I resemble a sort of godFloating through the air in my soul-shiftPure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.